Waiting for Katniss
by purebristles
Summary: KEPM  The world where you've survived your partner, friends and allies is a terrible place to be. But we are defiantly alive, and we are here. We are all still here. And we wait for her to come back to us. We wait for Katniss. Post-Mockingjay, diff POVs.
1. Waiting for Katniss

Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. No infringement meant.  
>Timeline: Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue.<p>

**Chapter 1: Waiting for Katniss**

We worked on the Book today. A train from District 4 came today, together with dried seaweed, salted fish - and a letter from Annie. With the amazing news that she had given birth to a son. Her son. Finnick's son. He looks like the perfect mash-up of Finnick, Annie, and -strangely- Mags.

We stuck the photo into the page carefully, waiting for our tears to stop falling before attempting to write in it.

"What can we write?" she asked. Words always seem so inadequate when we think of what to pen down. What we wish we could say to our friends, lost to us now.

_Victims of war_, they call them. _Collateral damage. Our glorious dead. The Unforgotten Ones._

We called them friends. Allies. And all we know is that they are now gone, torn from their worlds unwillingly, leaving behind wide rents in the fabric of our lives. Tattered rags fluttering in the wind. Like Haymitch. Like Annie. Like Finnick's son.

Like us.

"Hope," I told her, as she continued to study the picture. "He's hope."

Her gaze at Finnick's son glazes over, and I know she's no longer with me, not right at this moment. She's gone away, remembering those days long past, but not long enough. Days together with Finnick in the Games. Or perhaps she's remembering fighting in the Capitol with him. The final moments that flashed by when she had a strange moment of empathy with Finn before the mutts got him.

Or maybe she's just taking one of those moments when she's just not there. Because the pain's too much, and you just have to shut down for a while. Just for a bit. Before the nightmares catch you and trip you up in the middle of the day, and you have to scream or lash out at someone for the excruciating pain that the memories bring you.

I know what it's like, for I do it too. It's alright. Dr. Aurelius explained to the both of us that we'd be having episodes like this for a while. "Not exactly blackouts, but an temporary escape," he told us. "It takes time."

I know from experience that she'll come back to me eventually. Just like she did. Just like we're both doing now. In the meantime, I wait, as I have always done. Waiting for Katniss.

I look at her face - so familiar, so beautiful - but her blank eyes remind me that she is damaged, just as I am damaged. The Games have reaped a harvest from us: four harvests from the both of us, two for each Games. I wasn't lying when I told Caesar that taking a life costs everything that you are. It does. And we have paid the Styx ferryman Charon's toll many, many times over. For it costs - oh how much it costs! - everything, everything, _everything_ that you are to take an innocent life.

Rue. Foxface. Glimmer. Cato. Marvel. So many names. So many faces. And we've paid the toll, over and over again. Is it any wonder that we'd want to drink in a bit of the Lethe? To forget who we are and what we've done, even if it is for a while?

"Dandelion."

I look at her face. She's woken up again, her face tear-streaked but animated. She repeats again, "Dandelion."

"Yes," I tell her, reaching for her hand even as she stretches out for mine and pulled me to my feet. Surprised but yielding to her desires (for when have I not given her everything?), we step outside, and I see why: she wants to pull dandelions to press for the book. She doesn't need help, but these days, it's hard to get by without each other's presence.

She bends down to grab a careful handful of them, cowering under the shade of the primroses I've planted. They grow well in her garden, our garden, in the Victor's Village. Just like Prim should have grown here, in the Seam. Officially, we're still District 12 - but old habits die hard, even if the mines are no longer our sole source of income, and the villagers who have returned have brought with them the old names. The Seam. Greasy Sae. The Goat Man.

We return to the house, and pen down an entry for dandelions - how they emerge at the end of the cold winter, bringing spring with them. How they taste well in a salad, and how they bring rebirth and life with their seeds despite their fragile appearance. How they signify hope at the end of the dreary grey season. The cold season. The hollow, hungry season. She writes all this down in slow, careful handwriting, and sticks the stem of the dandelion near the bottom right of the page, signifying the end of the entry.

I stand behind her, stroking her hair as she writes. I love her hair - so long, so soft, so...perfectly Katniss. With her head bent over the book, all I can see is Finn's son's picture - smiling and standing, looking somewhat wobbly as he reaches out his arms towards the photographer. From my position, his head looks like it has hair... her hair.

My breath catches slightly with this sudden yearning in me, and I stop myself before I go too far. But it surprises me, this sudden want. Not for Katniss (for that never ends), but the jolt of envy of the dead that I feel. Envy of Finn, for his son, even though he's not here anymore. I force myself to relax, even as Katniss turns around and eyes me quizzically, having heard the change in my breathing.

I bury my face in her hair and breathe in the scent of her shampoo to mask my slip-up, and she gives me a small smile when I emerge from her tresses. "I think we're done for today," she says. I nod assent, and together, we close the book, and leave it on its place of honour, in the middle of the table, in the middle of the living room. In the middle of both our lives.

But only for now. Only for now. Because the book is nearly finished - or at least, we have finished with the beginning of the book.

That night, I watch her sleep, just like I have, countless nights before. I've always loved watching her sleep. To see her take breath - in, out, in, out. I watched her all those nights on the train. Helping her keep her nightmares at bay. Watching her helped keep me grounded and safe in a world without logic or reason.

I know I love her, and I know she knows I love her. I know she knows she loves me too. I see her love as she reaches for me every morning when she wakes up. I feel her love in her gaze when she thinks I'm not looking. I know she's not ready to face it. We're both not ready to deal with anything more emotional than sticking pictures in a scrapbook these days. But I know. And I'll wait for her, for us.

In my more self-pitying moments, I wonder if she loves me only because he's not here. If things had been different, if Gale had not been part of the war games - would she still have chosen me? Am I the consolation prize, the one who stayed for her? In times of self-doubt, Gale's words comfort me: _Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without._

And I know that she would have chosen Gale, had things remained the same in the Seam. When there was still coal to fire up. When there were still electrical fences to evade, and Peacekeepers to jolly around. When there was still Prim to think about.

But Prim is dead, and Gale is gone, and District 12 is no longer the same... and neither are we. The Reaping was well-named, empty husks that we are. We have poured out ourselves over and over again in the Games, but even though they're abolished, the Games isn't done with us yet, for it continues to reap our souls in nightmares and in panic attacks. Every bit of ourselves that we've won back - these dreams and hallucinations exact their pound of flesh from us.

Our continued existence is our defiance. Take our all, take everything, take our selves away from us again and again - and yet we still stand tall. We may be broken, but we are still here. And we will not be cowed.

Katniss shifts in her sleep, and moans softly. I stroke her hair, and she turns her face into my hands, settling down into sleep once again. The wings of my beloved are broken, but they are mending. I am mending. And once I am done mending, I want to build, just as others are busy rebuilding the Seam. I want to join our victor houses, to have one big compound. To have a huge garden, with primroses all around. To have a big lawn, so that our children can play.

I think I may be ready to dream again. Of houses and horses. Of weddings and bread toasts. Of little blonde boys and tiny fingers. But the wings of my beloved though mending, are still broken. And so I wait for my beloved patiently, as I have waited since I was 5. Waiting for her to turn around and catch my eye. Waiting for her to say hello. Waiting for her love. For Katniss.


	2. Her Father's Daughter

Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. No infringement meant.  
>Timeline: Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue.<br>Summary: A mother ruminates on daughters she barely knows.  
>AN: Thank you nebakanezer and jesuschick13 for being very lovely first reviewers.

**Chapter 2: Her Father's Daughter**

From the moment she was born, she was always her father's daughter. I carried her for nine months, and she suckled at my breast, but from the moment she laid eyes on him, she was his, and he was hers.

How she loved her father! How much she became her father's true daughter - growing into the role as if she were made to be his perfect partner-in-crime and deeds. She took to woods poaching as easily as a dog takes to water, and when she bagged her first rabbit, he was fair walking on air with pride. (Quietly, of course, lest the Peacekeepers should hear.) And when they sang together... the memory of their duets stabs my closed eyes with hot tears that lance down my cheeks.

I never begrudged them their relationship, for you love whom you love. Reason and logic have little to do with the heart: I know this from experience.

I call up a face from the past - the Mellark boy, always hoping to catch my eye as we walked the school halls. He had a nice, kindly face, and always smelled like flour - a nice, homely smell. But those were the hectic days that I was studying with my father in the shop - learning all I could about the herbs that would later fail to save my Prim. I was busy. Life was harsh, but my family was happy.

Happy. Prim. I clutch the hem of my scrubs as a spasm of pure agony lances through me, and I tell myself, _hold on hold on hold on here now here now._ Because I promised her - Katniss - that I wouldn't go away again. Even though the reason for being totally here is dead and gone. I failed her before. And I promised to stay. Even though I broke my promise by going away from her, from 12, this is the little that I want to remain true to. To stay here, through the pain. Because I promised my Katniss.

How tragicomic, how ironic life is. My Prim - the sweetest of souls that ever lived - being the pebble that started the avalanche downfall of the Capitol. How tragic, how painfully ironic, that she volunteered to save her sister, only to lose her anyway.

Everyday I feel the dilemma of not knowing what to feel about life. Now that she's gone, I can train doctors in a real hospital. Now that she's gone, I can breathe the scent of antiseptic and know that I have saved someone's life today. Now that she's gone, the world has its freedom.

But I am left bereft and adrift in a world without my Prim. My little girl, who precipitated the fall of the Capitol.

Sometimes the pain is unbearable, and I want to pick up the phone and ask her - was it worth it? Saving the world, but losing your sister? Was it worth the anguish?

But I know that the past tense is inaccurate - for I know her pain rivals mine. Katniss may be her father's daughter, just as Prim would always be mine, but their love for each other was undeniable. How could anyone watching that first Reaping (was it only 2 years ago?) doubt anything but love in Katniss' fear-filled eyes as she stepped towards that hateful platform? And for me to ask her - was it worth it? - would be the most heartless, most ridiculous thing to ask.

She finally called the other day. I had left the letter with my telephone number with Haymitch, and despite his abrasive personality, I know he'll get it to her. For all the manipulation that I know went on behind the scenes during the Games, I know he loves her. He just can't tell her. Because he has been Reaped, just like her.

We wept together on the phone. Wept for our mutual loss, the utter desolation in our souls tearing the sobs from our chests as we drowned the world with our tears. _Mom?_ her shaky voice had started. _Katniss?_ I had tried not to hope that she would call, even though I knew she would. _I'm so sorry I cou...couldn't... _she had started to say.

_I'm sorry I couldn't save her!_ I wanted to hold her so badly at that moment, regrets at staying away from the Seam filling my chest, tightening the band around it that was making it hard to breathe. And I was crying, sobbing with Katniss, telling her that I didn't blame her, nobody blamed her, nobody knew why Prim was even on the frontlines (_it was Coin it was Coin it was Coin_ my mind bleats at me), that it was okay, that I missed Prim too.

We cried for hours on the phone as we told each other stories of Prim. Of how she had the most wonderful healing hands, of how her instinct for herbs and remedies was always spot-on. How her compassion overruled her squeamishness. How she knew exactly what to do with Lady that would heal the goat of her pain. How much she loved learning about the modern medical techniques that District 13 had brought with them.

In a way, this was our wake for her. For my Prim. Remembering her as we both remembered her. At her best, doing what she loved best. It was a long wake, a long phone call, for she was so loved by the both of us. I was perversely glad that the astronomical call charge would be on the new Republic's account sheet, and not mine. Seems to be the least they could do to make it up to us. Not that they could ever repay anything they took from us.

There are other conversations to be be had. More pain to unwind. She's hurting something bad about Gale, and I know there's a story there that she needs to tell (because a mother knows these things), but I also know it can't be rushed. But those are stories to unpack later. For the memory of the price we've just paid is too high, too near for now.

I have things to tell her too. I want to tell her about her father and me. About how we met and how she changed both our lives. How he wasn't the one for me, but you love whom you'll love.

I want to tell her about my best friend Maysilee, and her twin sister Juniper, and the times that we had when we were younger, running about the Seam together after school. About the 50th Quarter Quell. About Maysilee, my best friend who was reaped on the screen for all to see. About Haymitch, the eventual victor.

Most of all, I want to tell her so she can see what she's done. What her mockingjay has wrought for us. What her _father's_ mockingjay pin has wrought upon all of us. Strange, how it found its way into her hands in the end.

I want to tell her about his love for her - a love that has reached past his death, to breathe new life into the people he loved. And I want to beg for forgiveness, for not being there for her in the Seam. _I'm so sorry__, _I think to her. _So sorry that I wasn't strong enough to return to 12 for you. _

I know the pain will never fade for me and the Seam. A husband lost, a daughter killed, another reaped, and so many friends and neighbours dead - I couldn't go back, because it would destroy me completely. So I ran from it, and set up in D4, surrounding myself with the sharp sting of antiseptic swabs and electronic beeping machines.

I don't know if she'll ever call again. I think she will. When the flowers bloom again, and when she awakens from the hard winter of the soul we are both battling now. And so I wait for the changing of the seasons, and the rebirth of hope in the spring.

I will wait for her. For Katniss. For her to make up her mind about me. To trust me again. For me to prove myself to her once again. And when the pain overwhelms me and threatens to send me away again, I tell myself - I promised her I'd be here. I promised not to go away again. So I will wait for her. For my daughter - for _his_ daughter to come back to us. To wait for Katniss.

* * *

><p>AN 2: I'm considering exploring non-character expositions, starting from Peeta, and now Mrs Everdeen. There are so many more story tails left by Collins to tie up... thank you Suzanne, for letting us play in Panem.


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